Homecoming
by For my sister
Summary: The night of Harry's conception.James has a close call and realises that he doesn't want to leave Lily alone anymore.


Its been a bad bad day...

This fic is a short vignette set some years after the Mauraders have left school. It is rated PG-13 for safety because it contains some mild / suggestive sexual material (damn don't I sound prim and proper). Authorial notes / random comment is situated at the end of the road just after the roundabout and the second set of traffic lights.

Please R & R

Timor mortis conturbat me.

He let himself in by the back door.

The main lights were off but she'd left the kitchen light on, she knew he always headed straight for the kitchen. Tonight her thoughtfulness didn't cheer him as it usually did. He felt shaky.

She was in bed he knew, it had been a long time since she'd waited up for him to come home. It wasn't practical. They both needed what sleep they could get.

Opening the door to the kitchen he glanced up at the clock 3.53, nearly four. The light emitted by the lamp on the table was muted but after so long in the dark it blinded him. He felt briefly afraid but resisted the urge to switch it off, after all she'd closed the curtains.

The room was murky, familiar objects made strange by the dim directional light threw obscure shadows up the walls. He closed the door.

He wanted to join her upstairs asleep. His eyes were pricking tiredness, small spots of distress but he walked to the fridge stubbornly. His hand stopped on the door, poised in the act of opening.

He felt his heart begin to pound.

Confused complex images rose up in front of him, acid burned his throat, he swallowed hard.

It was alright, it was all alright.

He watched the shaking of his hand as though it were disconnected, isolated from the rest of his body. He breathed deeply.

Opening the fridge he took out the milk and drank deeply straight from the glass bottle, the fridge light shone in his face and he felt anxious. He squashed his fear, she'd closed the curtains.

He wasn't hungry tonight, in fact he felt as though he might never be hungry again. He knew he should eat but the thought of food was repellent, even the milk which he knew was fresh that morning felt viscous, heavy, thick and choking.

He saw the remains of her supper lying abandoned in the fridge, no doubt intended for him to finish off at whatever time he got in. He thought of her eating her meal alone at their table and wished he could have joined her.

There was a lot left on the plate, she wasn't eating nearly enough at the moment it worried him, too many meals alone.

He shut the fridge door. Exhaustion no longer assailed him, it had come seen and conquered, he felt dead on his feet.

He wanted to go join his beautiful wife asleep upstairs but...

The shadows seemed to flicker even though the light didn't, distorting the room around him. The pounding of his heart began again and he shut his eyes collapsing into a chair.

The worn familiar wood reassured him, it was alright, it was all alright. It was alright, only if alright was a relative term. It had been so close that night _so close_...

He rubbed the bridge of his nose dislodging his glasses. He so wanted to go up those stairs but he couldn't, not yet, not while he still felt this... panic.

It was strange at the time he hadn't felt any of this... At the time with the world in chaos around him he'd functioned well, he'd kept his wits, held it together...

It was only after that he'd felt afraid, It was staring at Fay so white, so pale, so still lying in the hospital bed, remembering Ollie spinning taking an age to hit the earth... Sirius dropping fast to the ground and he hadn't known why he'd gone down or where the curses where coming from or _how they knew_.

It was the panic he'd felt sitting on the bench outside waiting to deliver his, it was an insult to call it a report, his _version_ of events but most of all it was the panic, the overwhelming, all engulfing terror he felt when he'd thought of Lilly. When any thought of his beautiful, beautiful wife crossed his mind when he thought of living his life alone, when he thought of her living alone with... nothing, nothing remaining.

He didn't want to lose her. Ever and he was _so scared _that he would. The urge to climb the stairs was overpowering now. The need to climb into bed, to wrap his arms around her warm body and to never let go...

Yet that was impossible too. He couldn't do it, because there was more to his terror than that

He was scared, so scared that his heart was in his mouth, his throat was dry and his legs seemed to be made of solid lead.

He was so utterly terrified that the sight that might meet his eyes when he reached their bedroom would not be that of his wife's peaceful sleeping form. Instead, lying there where she was meant to be would be a statue white, pale, and still, its heavy limbs denting the mattress. It would look like her and yet it would be motionless and he would know, know immediately that he'd lost everything.

It was irrational he knew, but still his fear paralysed him.

It was the shaking of his hands that broke the spell and for once he was grateful. Their involuntary movement brought his mind back to the present, out of the trap of irrationality.

He stood up and reached over to turn off the lamp. With the lights off he stood still for a moment, as he had been taught, allowing his eyes to adjust once more to the dark. He felt more relaxed, safer now. That wasn't a good sign.

He walked out of the kitchen and sat down at the bottom of the stairs to take off his shoes.

He was filthy; trousers, shirt, shoes, everything was encrusted with a thick black mud. He wondered why he hadn't had a shower at the ministry instead of coming here and treading it into the carpet.

Four hours lying in a ditch not daring to move while cows grazed peacefully in the field behind. How ridiculous, this was England for heaven's sake, he wished he could find it funny.

His shoes off he continued up the stairs.

At the doorway of his bedroom he hesitated then walked past and into the bathroom.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection bloodshot eyes, bags, mud splattered glasses, messy hair well that never changed. Sirius hadn't looked much better though.

The last time he'd seen him tonight he'd been having the rent in his harm healed by one of the med. nurses.

James had come in to see how he was doing, "Go on get off home. She'll have missed you mate and anyway if this good nurse is willing its highly unlikely that I will be hanging around here very much longer."

His smile had been a ghost of the usual lascivious smirk and although he'd known that it was unlikely that Sirius would be doing anything of the sort James hadn't argued.

Avoiding his reflection he turned on the taps and winced as the pluming complained.

A hot bath, as hot as he could stand it, it'd do him a world of good. He watched the water rise trying to clear his mind.

Lowering himself gingerly into the tub he couldn't prevent himself from gasping at the temperature. It was boiling hot but gradually his body adapted. It felt good and cleansing that's all that mattered.

He felt cold.

He hoped Fay would pull through.

His face was wet, sweat and condensation mingling with his tears. It was just the he hadn't realised...

"James?" Lily was standing in the doorway tousled and sleepy eyed.

He didn't want to die.

He stared at her, he didn't want to die.

"I'm sorry..." James had to stop to clear his throat. "I'm sorry for waking you."

His voice sounded wrong. Lily came into the bathroom leaving the door she had come through open, his eyes lingered on it.

"You've missed a bit." She said bringing him back. "Sit forward, I'll reach it for you."

She perched on the edge of the bath and began to wash his back. She was wearing one of his t-shirts he noticed, one of the ones he used to wear to go on trips to muggle London in the last years of school and she'd laughed at him because he'd known nothing about what the pictures represented.

She was washing his back in long stokes of the sponge and he could feel the tightness in his shoulders easing.

Gradually the tears stopped.

James lay back in the bath but Lilly didn't leave. She stayed sat on the lip while he gazed at the ceiling trailing her hand in the water.

He felt he should say something.

He turned his head and for the first time that night he looked properly at her. His apology died on his lips. He couldn't find the words to speak to her. She looked beautiful, her hair was un-brushed her eyes were half-lidded with drossiness and at the corner of her eye sleep had collected. His t-shirt bought to fit the seventeen year old he'd once been barely reached the top of her thighs when she sat and her legs seemed to go on forever. She looked unbelievably sexy.

He stared at her. She stared back.

He could see the questions crowding behind her eyes, on the tip of her tongue. He didn't want to talk about it.

He pulled her towards him and kissed her... slowly, as if his life depended on it.

Timor mortis conturbat me - The fear of death disturbs me.

Hi. I decided to leave my comments to the end this time as this is a bit of an experimental piece for me. I was testing out a slightly different style to the one I usually use and consequently I would really appreciate feedback on this one. Does it work? Is it effective? Does it create the right atmosphere or does the style just interrupt the flow of the material? _Any _comment will be appreciated even people telling me to get a plot. I know I know I promise to try harder next time but like I said this was _experimental_ and no that's not a crap excuse.

To reiterate Please Review.

Thanks xxx


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